accordancy | (no subject)

[so it looks like today is Robin's equivalent of "spring cleaning" day at the hideout. he's mostly getting his shit in order, tying up some loose ends, trashing the old stuff that no one wants anymore, aaaand... dealing with some business.]

[Euri]

[he hasn't spoken to her in a looooong time... but today he decided to change that.]

Hey. You really still hiding out in the woods?

Come on, come back. You must be bored to tears out there.

[Murdertastic Filter]

So, hey. Can't help but notice there's been an awful lot of murdering going on.

Think you guys could maybe not attract the attention of the whole fucking city?

[Public]

[with that finally out of the way and him waiting for responses (if they come at all), he's decided to just hang around on one of the couches and distractedly hum something that sounds a little like the Wren Song. there's a distant tapping that might be his foot on a wall.

but eventually he stops that, too. his attention span isn't all that great on a normal day, but today it's even worse. he'll start talking to no one in particular (which means the journal).]

You know what I miss? Fight rings. And not that publicly broadcasted shit they clean up for TV and radio, no--I'm talking real, messy, Underground fights. Those were the best fucking nights. Always a party.

[tap tap tap tap.]

I wonder if they've got anything like that hiding around here... Some corner of the slums, maybe.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[somewhere in there, he's lost sense of what exactly is all happening. Robin conducts an orchestra that ceases to be made up of individual notes that Coil can track and name--it becomes an elaborate mess of agonies that chews him up whole. He can pick out only pieces, noting the grind of broken things together, the way he can feel air against things that should be safe inside, the overwhelming smell of blood.

He surprised he's still conscious, even with all the effort he's putting toward keeping himself awake, and the expert way that Robin sharpens his suffering every time he thinks he's beginning to slip. There is just so much... he's shaking terribly, rattling every damaged thing. And he's cold. He notices himself thinking that around the time that he hears himself breathing--and then can't hear anything else once he notices it. It's a horrible sound, strained and frantic, rasping ragged in his own ears. It's an exceedingly familiar sound, the too-rapid shallow gasping of something waiting to start dying.

But nothing stops. Nothing does anything but somehow get worse in measured increments, until even those thoughts are dismantled. After another few minutes, he can't even hold onto the thought of why he's there anymore as his mind spirals and climbs and crashes, hitting that point of preferring anything to the present.

He finally has nothing left but the delirious want for it to stop.

Choking everything back is becoming too much. Exhausted from writhing, mind frayed to nothing, he starts to slip. Finally, something moves into his vision--Robin's hand, maybe--and there is an automatic flinch away, throwing his head to one side as a small panicked sound scratches up through his throat. He wants this to stop. No more.]

[he's never really sure what it is until it happens. he hears that miserable little sound and knows--it's time to start working backwards. he's nothing short of a mess. he's had more than enough. most would have broken long ago.

but there's just a little more.

he spreads his hands out in the air in front of him, fingers dripping, mentally reaching in for what's left of his core, blood that's still trying to serve his system. he takes it all up in his grasp, all of him, and pulls--one last agonizing strain, every injury touched again. every wound given new life, new sharpness. he wants him to remember this, even if he can't comprehend it now.

but then, finally, after the last and final twist, he lowers his hands. his eyes are now red more with the reflection of blood than his own glimmer. he sighs, a horrible kindness in his face.]

...You've done beautifully.

[from there he climbs off of him, sitting in a more neutral position at his side. he quickly busies himself, peeling off the other glove and carefully beginning to stitch up the parts inside of him that need the most immediate fixing. insides first--they're always the trickiest to repair.]

[oh, he will remember this.

The memory of being dragged kicking and screaming through death and back again will always be carved deep into the walls of his mind, but this is a bright image that will be emblazoned over it with such a raw vividness that it will rank one step higher in importance. And that is exactly what he wanted.

His head tosses back as agony rakes through him, back and shoulders arching hard off the red-wet floor--at first breathless, until it doesn't stop and crawls in violent kicks up out of his lungs and into his throat.

It would have been a scream if his jaw hadn't been locked down tight, instead coming out as an agonized cry grinding broken and loud through his teeth.

Robin has granted his wish.

And it takes him a little while to realize that it's done, still lying in broken-up pieces. But after a few more minutes, finally picking up on the fact that nothing new is inexplicably ripping apart at the seams... his writhing turns to pathetic trembling, and his panting becomes nothing but deliriously desperately relieved.

...It's over.

He did it.]

[and he's so proud of him. he really does have a strength, this kid, even if he doesn't know it. he wants to link with him again, to see if it worked, to see if he believes it--he wants to know, to check. he wants to listen to what little his poor mind can feverishly spin through. but he doesn't. he's too busy returning things to their proper places, scooping up blood and threading out impurities and using it to stitch him back together from the inside-out. he takes his panting for as much as its worth; he'll believe, for now, that he's done plenty.

he closes up the gaping wounds, layers them so that they'll heal faster. he doesn't want any internal bleeding. the bones are next, but he leaves some cracks. the skin comes too, but again--he wants some of this to heal on its own. he wants to give him something to carry with him for a while. it'll probably hurt, resetting and rebuilding, but it's nothing compared to what he just put him through. it's interspersed with him touching his face, brushing damp hair away from his good eye. smiling to himself.

eventually he's "good enough". Robin peels off the tattered remains of Coil's ruined shirt, tosses that in a wet mound with his gloves. from there, he scoops Coil up in his arms and carries him over to the bed as easily as a child carries a doll. he lays him down, presses one last quiet kiss to his temple, and then wanders to deal with the mess they've left on the floor behind them.]